The Pink Plaster Cow
by cheney
Summary: Cheney Duvall MD/Moulin Rouge crossover. Cheney plans to elope with Bain, Bain sings under her window, Shiloh builds a trellis, and other such frivolous nonsense.
1. Chapter One

Victoria ducked before a shoe hit her in the head for the second time.

"Cheney, really," she started, picking her way around the shoes and dresses scattered all over the floor. "I understand you're upset, but surely you -"

Another shoe came sailing across the room, followed by a jewelry box. They crashed into the wall behind Victoria and fell to the floor.

"Upset?" Cheney Duvall exclaimed, turning away from her ransacked closet to face her friend. "Upset doesn't begin to describe it, Victoria. I'm furious. Outraged. That they think they can do this to me, after all I've done for them..." She picked up a glove, shook it in frustration, and tossed it down again. "I simply refuse," she said decisively, ripping more dresses from the closet and throwing them on the floor.

Victoria considered this for a moment. "Cheney," she said gently, "don't you think you'd -better- marry him? You have all the fans to consider, and -"

"I hate fans," Cheney said petulantly. "I'd much rather have air-conditioning."

"It hasn't been invented yet," Victoria said dryly. "Cheney, it's –Shiloh-. It's not like you're marrying...Jeremy Blue or...or Sweet! It could be much, much worse. Maybe you should simply make the best of the situation. He is, after all, quite rich." She pondered this. "Perhaps I shall marry him. Dev is attractive enough, but quite tragically poor."

"He's a doctor, Victoria. He has money. -You- have money."

"I'd like more of it. I've been thinking about collecting it. Wouldn't that be lovely?"

"Charming," she said absently, going to the window and peering out. "But no, my mind is made up. Bain and I are eloping tonight. I'm going to climb down the trellis. I simply won't marry Shiloh, and everyone shall have to find some way of coping with that."

"You don't have a trellis," Victoria said, giving Cheney an odd look.

"I'm getting one built. By SHILOH! Isn't that delicious!" Cheney grinned evilly. "It's simply too perfectly convoluted and ironic. Climbing down a trellis built by one's fiancé, only to elope with the fiancé's fabulously handsome and devastatingly villainous cousin..."

Victoria joined Cheney at the window, where Shiloh was hammering away at the trellis. "But...you're an adult. Can't you just walk out the door? Why must you sneak out the window and down the trellis?"

"Walking out the door wouldn't be any fun at all," Cheney replied, thinking it was quite obvious. "Really, Victoria. If a person is going to elope, one may as well do it right. Walking out the door is dreadfully anticlimactic. No. It simply won't do. Bain is going to come stand under my window tonight, and he's going to sing. Upon hearing him, I shall open the window and climb daringly down the trellis, and we shall escape to Paris or Hawaii or Simbaloringadum or some such place."

Victoria snorted. "Bain's going to come and -sing- under your window?"


	2. Chapter Two

"You're going to -what?!-" Christian was staring at Bain as if Bain had a rubber ducky stuck to the middle of his forehead. Which, in fact, he did.

"Don't look at me like that. I told you once. Actually, I told you twice. Because when I first came to talk to you, I said--"

"I get your point." He was still staring at Bain's forehead. "Do you have any more of those duckies?"

"Yes. Here." Bain smashed a ducky onto Christian's head.

"Much better. Go on."

"I'm going to sing under her window - you're doing it again, stop that."

"Stop what?"

"That annoyingly incredulous look. It's freaking me out." Bain began pacing, as he tended to do at least once in every book. "I need a song. You need to help me think of a song. You have experience with this sort of thing."

Christian shook his head. "No, actually, I don't. I know nothing about singing under windows. I've never done it, in fact.  In front of windows, yes. On top of elephants? Sure. But you should really talk to Leah, I hear she does this sort of thing quite often."

"No, no, it's no good. I can't talk to Leah. If I talk to Leah, she'll say I need to stop wasting my time in stories such as this and help her with the website."

"Websites haven't been invented yet," Christian pointed out. "Besides, she probably would be glad you're wasting your time in some sort of story. A random story is better than no story at all. She could put this on the site. Actually," he added, "that would be hysterical."

"I need help," Bain pleaded. "Please just help me with a song. Don't make me beg."

Christian's eyes lit up. "You'll beg? Ooh! I want to see you beg!"

It was Bain's turn to stare at Christian as if Christian had a rubber ducky suctioned to his forehead. Which, in fact, he did.

"You've got a rubber ducky in the middle of your forehead," he evaded.

"So do you."

There was an awkward silence.

"You have to help me!" Bain suddenly exclaimed, falling on the floor to beg at Christian's feet. "Please, please, help me! I'll pay you! You can have my clipper! Just please help me with a song! I have to go sing under Cheney's window --"

"Cheney?!" Christian said, interrupting Bain's hysterics. "You're going to sing to Cheney?"

"Yes," Bain said, composing himself somewhat. "I thought I told you that."

"Actually, you kept referring to her as...'her.'"

"Oh, well, yes. It's Cheney." Bain got to his feet and checked to make sure the ducky was still plastered to his forehead.

"Bain, my friend, I may be able to help you..."


	3. Chapter Three

Cheney Duvall sat at her window, waiting. She looked out the window. She looked at the clock. Window. Clock. Window. Clock.

"He's dreadfully late," she whined.

"He's probably buying you flowers," Victoria assured her. "He shall be here. He better be here. I stayed to hear him sing. Especially under a trellis. There is something special about singing under a trellis…"

"Do get over it, Victoria. We can't both be madly in love with Bain. It simply won't do." A glance out the window again revealed an empty yard.

"I suppose I shall simply have to make Dev sing under a trellis for me," Victoria sighed.  

They sat in silence for a while, contemplating Bain and Dev and trellises.

Suddenly there was a sound. Cheney threw the window open and leaned out.

"Five little ducks went out one day, over the hills and far away! Mama Duck said, 'Quack quack quack quack!' Four little ducks came waddling back!"

Time seemed to stop. Cheney stared at Victoria, her mouth open and her eyes wide. Victoria had a look of confusion on her face. Below them, Bain kept singing, now adding hand motions.

"Four little ducks went out one day, over the hills and far away! Mama Duck said 'Quack quack quack quack!' Three little ducks came waddling back!"

Cheney began to say something, stopped, began again, and hesitated. Finally she managed, "Is he calling me a –duck-?"

Victoria, still stunned by the choice of songs (and by the fact that Bain Winlslow was dancing around the yard doing coordinating hand motions) coughed and said, "I – um – maybe he's saying…he wants to have five ducklings. Er, children. And – lose them. Over the hills and far away. Oh, horrors. That's not much better."

"BAIN FERDINAND WINSLOW!" Cheney shouted out the window. "Are you calling me a duck?!"

"Cheney my love!" he called up to her. "Do you like the song?"

"You – I – hmph!" She indignantly slammed the window shut and disappeared inside.

Bain stared up at her in confusion. He glanced back at where Christian was hiding in the bushes.

"Three little ducks," Christian prompted, and pointed up the trellis.

"Have you been sniffin' the exhaust?!" Bain exclaimed. "I can't climb up-"

"Go!"

Bain went, muttering under his breath. He reached the trellis and began climbing up. Right foot, left foot, right foot…

 "Three little ducks went out one day…"

There was a sickening creaking sound. Cheney and Victoria ran to the window.

"Shiloh built that trellis! It's not sturdy! Get off!" Cheney shrieked as the entire trellis wrenched free from the wall and fell backwards, taking Bain with it. There was a crash. Cheney and Victoria hurried downstairs and out to the yard.

Bain Winslow was lying pinned under the trellis, mumbling something about eight-thousand pound prairie dogs. Cheney hurried over to him and dumped carbolic acid on his head, saying, "I'm a doctor, this will make you better."

"Maybe…we should move the trellis off of him," Victoria ventured, not wanting to sound contrary. She wasn't a doctor, after all.

"Oh. Oh, yes, perhaps we should."

Victoria, Cheney, and Christian lifted the trellis off of Bain.

"Ugh," Bain groaned, getting up. "Why does my head hurt so much?"

"Cows," Christian said matter-of-factly.

Bain nodded absently, then made a face. "Cows?!" he exclaimed, entirely lost as to the turn the conversation had taken.

"Well, it MIGHT!"

Cheney and Victoria stared, a bit confused.

"Aren't cows…a 'they?'" Victoria finally said.

"Not –these- cows," said Christian informatively.

"Oh," she said.

Bain got down on one knee in front of Cheney. "Cheney, my love, marry me!"

Cheney pulled her hand out of his grasp. "You called me a duck!" she retorted. "What was that supposed to mean?!"

"No," Bain desperately tried to explain, "I was singing to you. Singing! Just as we'd planned!"

"About a duck!" she said mournfully.

"But – it wasn't – it was all –his- idea!" Bain pointed at Christian, who grinned endearingly at Cheney.

"I don't think you look like a duck," he said.

"Oh…well…thank you," she said, finding him quite charming. She turned back to Bain. "Bain Winslow! I could kill you…"

"Your trellis nearly did, Cheney dear. Please, let's not relive that experience. Let's put the past behind us, forget the ducky song, and go on with things as we planned. We'll get married and live happily ever after!"

Cheney was looking at him warily.

"Quick!" Victoria suddenly cried. "Shiloh! Here!"

"WHAT?"

"Shiloh's coming! We have to leave!"

The foursome hurried away as Shiloh, awakened by a nightmare about his trellis falling apart, wandered over to study the wreckage.

"My poor trellis," he sobbed, picking up the broken pieces. "I should have gotten here sooner. I knew you were in trouble." He clutched the trellis and cried.


	4. The Un-Chapter in Which the Author Compl...

Bain Winslow happened to have a convenient not-yet-invented car parked a block away. Under normal circumstances the author wouldn't have resorted to such a copout chapter beginning, but the story was going nowhere at all. It needed some mode of transportation.

They sped away from the broken trellis and heartbroken Shiloh.

There were four people in the car, and about ten conversations.

"Duck! You called me a --"

"What in the name of Bob…"

"BAIN!"

"And Fanfiction.net? What are they sniffing? 'Satine's thoughts after death,' what's that about?"

"DO YOU THINK I LOOK LIKE A DUCK!?"

"What in the name of Bain?"

"STOP!"

"But if that's the summary, then--"

"That light was red. You just ran a red light."

"—what it's about."

"I HATE YOU SO MUCH! It's your fault…all your fault…"

"—far too literal. I'm trying to complain and you –"

"Maybe no one cares. Oh, I want a digital camera. I need a --"

"I hate you…"

"You're so FLIPPANT about it-"

"THE HILLS ARE ALIVE WITH THE SOUND OF MUSIC!"

          Dead silence.

          "You know," Cheney finally said crossly, "That's really been overdone and it's not funny anymore."

          Awkward silence.

          "I hate you so much," Christian muttered.

          "I hate you more."

          "I hate you like –whoa-."

          "I hate the fact that this story has NO PLOT WHATSOEVER," the author said.

          "I don't like the Elms," said Rock4Life. And that was all he said.

          Ten million Elms fangirls attacked him all at once. 

          Bain drove on.

By some odd impossible twist of fate, they ended up at Cedarville, perfectly miserable and wanting to die.

It wasn't that Cedarville made people want to die. No, things weren't that simple. It was the combination of the heat, the lack of electricity, the pollen…many, many things that when put together made one want to crawl miserably into a cave and disappear.

They retreated to the lounge of Faith Hall, which made the story slightly less impossible as girls –and- guys were allowed to be there, together. It was also one of the few places in the immediate area that was airconditioned, and none of our heroes wanted to walk any distance in the heat. None of them wanted to move again, ever, to be quite honest.

So there they sat, caught up not in a story but a random venting session, as Christian tried helplessly to hook his laptop (we're in the 21st century now, kids) to the T1 connection. Cheney and Bain lethargically watched, while Victoria simply curled up on the couch and closed her eyes, trying to sleep or go into a coma, they weren't sure which.

"Mmm," Cheney said.

"Ahhh," Bain said.

"Die," Christian said. "Die, die, die, die…"

"I'd like to," Cheney mumbled, wondering why in the name of great beans from the north the air had turned off. Oh, there it was. Along with the infernal beeping. 

"What," she said, "is that infernal beeping?"

No one answered, because no one could muster up the energy to care.

Exactly ten years and fifty-two dollars later, Christian had managed to buy a PCMCIA card, one of those mysterious devices that one is told one has when one truly knows otherwise. And there was Instant Messaging and there was Internet, and it was good.

Defying all laws of time, he and Cheney and Bain and Victoria were still sitting in the lounge of Faith Hall, even thought it was ten years and fifty-two dollars later. Nothing had changed, except the internet worked – except it didn't work at the moment, because the electricity was out and so the servers were down.

"Or whatever," said Christian, who found he didn't care about servers and PCMCIA cards at all as long as they did what he wanted them to. Which was rare.

          The lounge our foursome sat in was quite busy, because it seemed that a good number of people who also most likely wanted to die had sought refuge in the air conditioning. This left Bain, Cheney, Victoria and our resident typist, with whom the author is identifying herself with at the moment, very put out, as they didn't care to be sociable or even out in public. And the latter would have been content to sit alone and type antisocially for a good long while. In fact, she – er, he would have liked that very much. He had found, however, that in doing this people were often rather scared, because it seems the general population of the world doesn't enjoy sit ting about typing intensely. He did, however, have the guise of schoolwork, and so no one paid him any mind, assuming, perhaps, that he actually had a paper to work on, instead of this unique source of catharsis.

          "I want to diiiiiie," Cheney moaned again, meaning it.

          "Goodness, this is morbid," Bain commented.

          "I wonder how long Chuck's is open," Victoria asked of no one in particular. The very thought of food in this heat made her ill, but she was curious as to if she would be able to eat after her meeting. She needed a dish. Ramen would do away with the troublesome matter of eating dinner at a normal time, and also with the troublesome matter of journeying farther than she wished to in the heat.

          It was with much sadness that the author realized she had lost the plot entirely, that there was no longer any story but rather just a heat-induced rambling.

          "Make the beeping stop," Christian complained.

          "No," Bain whined miserably. "I hate you."

          "I hate you both," Cheney snapped.

          "I hate everybody," Victoria declared. "And I'm rather content with that."

          They sat in petulant silence, hating each other.

          "67%," Christian said randomly to the air.

          "That fast, eh?"

          "Unfortunately."

          "At least it's not the Sims," Bain said. "Then it would die…"

          "Die," Christian repeated. "Die, die, die, die…"

          It was around this point that Cheney realized everyone else was studying, that it might not be a bad idea to do so and that it was a very good time to study, indeed. But there was nothing terribly pressing for her to do – nothing she felt she could keep her mind on. Which was, of course, her fault.

          "64%," Christian said miserably.

          The door opened. People walked in. The door shut. The beeping continued. 

          "This is truly a most fascinating story," Victoria commented.

          "Jennifer likes reading about mundane details of life," Cheney commented, "And Eliss likes picturing the characters she knows – which is one – I suppose that could be remedied." She pondered. "At least right now she can picture Christian bemoaning the 64% of battery life he has left."

          "62," he said mournfully.

          "62," she conceded.

          "53," he said, before our foursome was abandoned for an earth science book.


	5. Chapter 4.25

In the interest of green slushies, our foursome stood outside the ice cream shop, pondering. 

Bain Winslow was staring at a very informative sign, and it was after staring at said sign for a moment that he announced cleverly, "They're closed."

"But," said a forlorn Cheney, "I want a green slushy."

"And I want a green slushie," Christian said, as the author was undecided on the matter of spelling, and had decided to simply use both.

"Now what?" Victoria wondered.

"We could try to build a car out of nothing but bubblegum wrappers and toothpicks and change our names to Something Else!" Christian said excitedly.

"Change our names to -what-?" Cheney wondered.

"Something Else!"

"Yes, but what would we change our names to? What else?"

"SOMETHING Else!"

"Ignore him when he gets like this," Victoria said wisely.

Bain had a thoughtful look on his face. "How…would we… build the car?" he ventured slowly.

"Very carefully," Christian said solemnly.

There was silence as they considered this.

"That is the most absurd idea I have ever heard in all my life," Victoria said suddenly. "We are most certainly not doing that. We are going to go to Steak and Shake, because as everyone in the entire world knows that is what one does when one has nothing to do."

"Only," Christian challenged, "if we can do the Mad Libs on the placemat."

"Fine," she said.

So they sat, in a booth at Steak and Shake, when the reality of the situation was that our resident narrator was supposed to be writing some spectacularly clever radio commercial singing the praises of Colonial Pizza. Which meant that she was going to delegate the job to Christian, because that helped her vent in the third person and sometimes (but not usually) got her feeling rather creative.

"So," Cheney said, peering over a huge glass of Cherry Coke that cost a dollar more for the cherry, "Why do you like Colonial Pizza?"

"I don't. That is, I might. Probably. But I've never been there."

"Oh. That does tend to complicate things."

Silence.

"Colonial Pizza is like oxygen!" Christian suddenly exclaimed. "Pizza is a many-splendoured thing, pizza lifts us up where we belong, all you need is pizza!"

"Cute," Victoria remarked. "And copyrighted."

"Why are we sitting here discussing pizza when the author could be doing something of importance?" Bain demanded. Like, oh, I don't know, writing something that was actually of consequence? That needed to be done?"

It was a good question, indeed.


End file.
